


Shadow Love

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, F/M, Frottage, Frustrated Dean Winchester, Kissing, Mystery, Mystery Character(s), Oral Sex, Possession, Rough Sex, Spiritual bond, Supernatural Bond, Supernatural Elements, Touching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-07-16 13:30:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16087085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: You're an ancient, powerful supernatural entity on the run with Dean as your bodyguard. Neither of you knows your identity or your purpose, but the pull between you is so strong that you can't resist each other. When you begin to regain memories, you aren't sure whose they are; and Dean begins to pull away. Meanwhile, Sam, Cas, and Rowena are on the case.SPOILERS FOR SEASONS 13 AND 14 LIE HEREIN





	1. Chapter 1

[Accidentally Like A Martyr](https://youtu.be/Sa4rISvAhQc) is a song by Warren Zevon from where I pulled the title of this fic.

 

* * *

 

His breath is a steady rhythm, humming from the other side of the dilapidated motel mattress, but you know that he’s awake. You wonder what he’s thinking about, if he’s pretending to be asleep. You wonder if he wants what you want – what you’re too afraid to ask for or to take. 

You think about how to entice him. You think about this a lot, but you haven't had an opportunity as you do right now, alone and vulnerable. You think about rolling your back to him, wriggling, maybe whimpering a little – see if you can’t get that infamous Winchester protectivity to rear its beautiful head. But then you realize that your feigned weakness won’t lure him; he’ll just want to comfort you, to keep you safe – what he’s already sworn to do.

After moments upon days of deliberation, you decide to move. You roll to face him and he’s just inches away, one arm bunched under the flattened, old pillow, his other hand, gripping his bicep, smooth face soft in the moonlight. He’s atop the blankets that cover you, and you’re still so unsure of what you’re about to attempt, so you stare.

Dean doesn’t open his eyes or stir when he speaks in a low, quiet voice. “Everything okay?” he asks.

You’re silent, unanswering until his tired, shining eyes flutter open. His face is still when you answer. “No."

Dean’s brow creases in question. “What is it?” Then he stirs, the hand once gripping his opposite arm reaches for you, and he smoothes the flannel of his shirt you’re wearing over your tense arm, fingers gently wrap your wrist.

“I need-” You start and stop yourself. You want him, and maybe you need him, but is it wise to tell him that so baldly? Will you scare him?

“What?” he asks, encouraging eyes and soft lips and sweet, rough fingers tingling your skin to itch. “Tell me.” He moves to prop himself on his elbow, brushing his thumb over and over the inside of your wrist, making you shiver. “You’re cold,” he says, eyes scanning the room, ever the hunter and gatherer. “I’ll get you another blanket.” He moves to roll from the bed and you reach out and grip his wrist tight. 

“Wait,” you say. “I’m not cold, Dean. I just… want you.”

His face is a wave of confusion then shock then hesitation, all in the space of one second; but before you can release him for rejection, he’s twisting his wrist and clasping his hand with yours. He doesn’t move into you, but you feel him heavier now as if he were actually closer. One of the damnedest things about Dean is how he occupies space, how it shifts and spreads, how he can fill a room to the brim just by being in it.

Want or need, your desire for Dean is primal, rooted in your soul. You do need him – to fill something in you or complete it. And over the last few days, you know he needs you, too.

Dean keeps his distance, but settles back into the mattress, holding your hand in his. “Okay,” he says with a slight bob of his head. “I’m here.”

You swallow and close your eyes, reveling in the warmth and size and feel of his hand around yours. “Touch me,” you breathe, opening your eyelids to a slit. You hold Dean’s gaze as he searches your eyes for an answer you don’t have. “Please.”

After a few beats of breath and uncharacteristic indecision, Dean’s fingers twist from yours and glide back up your arm, his eyes skimming your face. He stops to grip your shoulder, pressing his fingertips into the coiled muscles of your upper back and rubbing, quietly cooing something soothing and hot. His thumb brushes back and forth until the placard of his flannel moves away for his calloused fingers to graze across your exposed collarbones, and you sigh.

You don’t touch him or speak; you just hold his eyes and feel his fingertips dance over your skin. What he’s doing isn’t at all sexual, but the pull inside you is growing stronger with every second.

“Do you know what it feels like to need something so badly…?” you whisper and watch his eyes narrow and crinkle, one single fingertip tracing the shell of your ear and his breath fanning your cheek.

He says your name and his voice and eyes hold centuries of regret and heartbreak. The space between you narrows to a close with the heft of his presence, his sense of duty, his unbreakable spirit.

“Kiss me,” you plead, and Dean sighs, his lips work with no sound for some kind of protest that never comes. He drops his eyes and shakes his head and fists the hem of the shirt you’re wearing.

“Fine,” you say, and you push the blankets off, roll and climb astride him, splay your hands on his t-shirt covered chest, and dip your head to kiss him. His palms rest on your bare knees and he’s pliant as your lips meld to his. You know how to do this, you’re good at this.

Dean’s body relaxes under you as your mouth opens and your tongue swipes his plump lips. His hands skim from your knees over your thighs and wrap your hips on either side, pinky fingers dipping under the waistband of your panties. You swallow his sighs and let his scent envelop you – iron and mint and sunshine. 

Then he pulls his mouth from yours. “We can’t do this,” he whispers, his breathing heavier than before. His lips shining and his eyes dark.

“We can,” you argue. “I won’t hurt you.”

Dean shakes his head again. “You said you needed something. What?”

“You, I told you.” You cup his cheeks and his eyes close on instinct, brow furrowed, fingers digging into your hips. “You feel it, too.”

Dean tries to appeal to you with reason, that you’re still raw and new to this world, that neither of you knows what you are or are not capable of, that physical contact between you and any human is a bad idea.

So you kiss him again.

“Let me make you feel good,” you whisper into his mouth and against his skin. “I can do that. I can do it for both of us. I remember everything.” You nuzzle his scruffed jaw and let yourself grind over his solid torso, your hands planted on his chest.

Dean says what you’re doing isn’t right. He says he shouldn’t let any of this happen. But his body is reacting, his hips slowly undulating underneath you, lifting you; his hands dragging up your sides and under your thin tank top. He keeps saying your name and every time he sounds less and less convinced of his own arguments.

“You’re everything,” you whisper in his ear. “You’re bravery and dedication and love.” You punctuate each point with a soft kiss or scrape of your teeth, and Dean is turning to gooseflesh under your ministrations. “And kindness and passion and strength – everything this world should be and more.”

You push your hands under his t-shirt and scrape your nails over hot, scarred skin before pulling the shirt up. Dean doesn’t argue when he feels the cotton tug at his back, he simply sits up and lets you drag the garment over his head and toss it aside. He stays seated, holding you, waiting.

“You deserve so much good and right, Dean,” you tell him, sitting back on your haunches, between his knees, touching him and kissing him. “I want to give you anything I can. Let me give you this.”

Dean sways and sighs, a painful need so clear in his eyes as he shakes his head and grits his teeth. “I can’t.” 

“You can,” you say, sliding over his hips again to press your dampening, tightening center over him, grinding. You ride him like that for a few moments, feeling how hard he is. You want to take him inside you, feel him bare and hot, feel him come; but that’s not all.

“Dean,” you hold his head in your hands and bury your face in his neck. “Forget tomorrow. What do you want?” You’re so close to coming from rubbing against him. You keep chasing your orgasm as his hands roam under your tank top, determined and hot, pushing your bra up and cupping your tits in his hands, pulling your nipples. “I know you wanna fuck me; I can feel you. But what do you really want?”

“I can’t…” He can’t tell you what he wants, and he won’t take what he needs. 

You yank his flannel from your frame and your tank top over your head with your bra inside it before pushing him down to lie flat on his back. You’ve already got his pants open and your mouth around him and you’re swallowing him whole when he tries to protest.

“Shit,” he breathes, burying his hand in your hair. He raises one knee then slides his leg back out, grabs a fistful of blankets and groans. He says your name, he calls to God, he whimpers, and you feel him start to pulse in your throat.

Dean tugs at your hair, trying to pull you off of him, and you smack his hand away but release him for a brief second. “Come in my mouth, Dean,” you tell him. “I want it.” You swallow him again, and he slams his head back into the pillow, eyes shut tight. In seconds, he’s coming between your smiling lips and you take everything he gives. 

* * *

 

to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves, blows kisses* tap out your thoughts in that little box below. I'd love to hear from you!

Dean lies panting heavy breaths as you climb up his body once more. This time, you drape yourself over his large frame, entwining your legs with his, and he easily wraps his arms around you, holding you in place and making you beam from the inside out.

“See? We’re still alive, the world didn’t end,” you murmur, resting your head over his heart and listening to the staccato beat slowly steady.

Dean sighs and you can feel his body begin to tense again. “This is risky,” he says, his fingertips keeping your skin tingling. “Just being close to you sets off all kind of alarms, and _that_ …” Dean shakes his head. “I’ve had plenty of blow jobs in my life, but that was like… shit, I don’t even know.”

“Spiritual?” you suggest, tilting your face to look at his.

Dean tilts his own head in uncertainty, eyes wide and cautious. “Maybe. Or… _more_.”

You’re both quiet for several moments. You know exactly what your connection to the hunter is, and you’re pretty sure he knows it, too; but he seems to be afraid of it. At the very least, he doesn’t trust it.

“It is more,” you speak quietly. “And you know what this is.”

He shakes his head again and you feel it, feel the exasperation and bewilderment. “I don’t. Neither of us does,” he asserts.

“Dean, why do you think I’m here?” You prop yourself up on one elbow, and Dean’s eyes travel from your eyes over your bare skin, landing on your chest, your nipples tightly puckered. “With you.” Then his eyes dart back up to meet yours.

He swallows and licks his lips. “You’re an important piece of this fucked up puzzle we’re trying to solve,” he states in a dry, matter of fact way that doesn’t match his posture or the moment the two of you are sharing. “And I’m keeping you safe and off the grid.”

“Dean,” you smile and chuckle quietly. “You know I don’t need you to protect me.” You reach for his hand and bring it to cup the heavy flesh that you know he wants to touch and taste. “But staying off-grid, as you say, is good for us. We can be together alone.”

You squeeze his hand around your heavy tit, showing him what he can have if he’ll just take it. His eyes haven’t left yours; they’ve narrowed and heated as his rough fingers pull at your nipple. You hiss and shudder and your eyes roll back as you jut into his caress. Then his mouth is on your other mound, tongue swirling the puckered nipple, teeth scraping. He rolls you to your back, moving with purpose, now, determination, and there’s a distinct edge to his gaze and his movement.

“Why me?” he asks, and you think he isn’t asking you - not really - he’s asking the universe. Dean has never believed that he’s as important as he is. He uses his resources well, he uses his body and the tools provided him. He’s sacrificed himself for the world and for his loved ones, but he’s never believed in what he deserves, what is rightfully his.

“You’re the _only_ one,” you answer, watching Dean rise to his knees between your naked, open thighs to shuck his jeans and boxers to the floor. He’s hard again and your soul soars at the sight of him broad and thick, looming over you, pulling you in and settling you. “In all my millennia, it’s only ever been you, Dean.”

He dips his head to kiss your jaw and your throat, trailing wet and hot over your sensitive nipples, nipping at the lower swell of each of your tits. You love what he’s doing – every move and touch and kiss fills you with bliss, recharges you. You cannot wait to have him inside you, all the way, deep and hot and hard, filling you whole.

When he drops to his forearms, he's caging you in, simultaneously spreading you more open with his knees, thick, strong thighs making you gush at the thought of what he could do to your human vessel, if he really did what he wanted, really let himself go.

Dean groans and whispers against your skin. In the depths of his soul, he knows what you’re saying – and what you’re _not_ saying – is true. He just doesn’t trust what he knows. You don’t push him, though. Instead, you lie open to him, praying that he’ll find his way soon.

His mouth is on you again, his cock insistent as he works his way inside your wet cunt. He’s slowly stretching you and the feeling is overwhelmingly _exactly_ what you hoped it would be. It’s the physical manifestation of what your soul feels when you share space with him.

You want to surrender everything to him – your heart and soul and body and mind, your will to live and thrive. You want to be _his_. He is your sovereign and you are his subject.

“Take what you want,” you whisper, gasping as his thick cock slides out to the tip. When he slams back in all the way, you grunt and shriek with a delight you’ve been searching for since you first felt him near.

Dean’s strength of character and morality defines him. His unbreakable will is legendary. You know that even in Hell, when Alistair thought he broke Dean, Dean was still in control. You’re going to convince him of that truth, to convince him of his worth and intention.

You remain open and pliant as Dean hammers into you. Your legs hug his strong hips, your hands roam the scarred skin that’s stretched tight over hard-earned muscle, and your breath is pushed from your lungs with his every thrust. Your hands find purchase on his broad shoulders and you hold tight for the ride.

“You can have anything you want,” you breathe hard and gasp with his roughness. “Dean...”

“What-” Dean groans and gasps for air. “What d’you _mean_?” He grits his teeth and his hips stutter as he hangs his head and slows his thrusts. When he looks in your eyes again, his gaze is filled with desperation.

You cup his jaw in your warm palm. Dean closes his eyes and nuzzles into your touch. “Just feel,” you say. “Feel _us_.”

He rolls his head from your hand and moves again, this time slower, lazy and deep. His lips join yours and he pulls you up by the back of your neck. You fold your legs and then you’re straddling his lap, kissing him, feeling him deep inside.

His eyes are still closed and he’s muttering words you don’t understand. He’s cursing, not making any sense, but you feel a force surrounding you both, encasing you and Dean in warmth. And there’s a kind of softness that contrasts epically with the way Dean feels inside you. He’s so hard and so eager, his fingers digging into the soft skin of your hips.

“Dean,” you gasp and stutter. “We’re almost there. Do you feel it?”

He slides a hand up into your hair, twists and pulls and his mouth is on yours again. “What the fuck is this?” he whispers around lips and tongue. His teeth scrape over your jaw and you feel wetness against your cheek. You feel his tears.

“Oh, Dean,” you moan, canting your hips to ride him all the way to the end. He drops a hand into your lap, hooks his middle finger to the second knuckle inside you with his thick cock, stretching you further, pressing that soft spot, thumbing your clit, and you explode.

Then he’s over you, pinning your wrists to the mattress and fucking you hard. He’s making noise and dropping salty sweat and tears to your skin. You can’t be open enough to take everything he gives. You curse the human vessel you’re in for its inadequacy until you feel another wave building where he’s rubbing against your clit hard with each thrust.

“Fucking _sonuvabitch_ ,” Dean groans loud, and it’s wet and it hurts so well when you come again as he empties inside you, calling your name with a sob.

 

* * *

 

_to be continued..._

**[Visit me on Tumblr!](https://thoughtslikeaminefield.tumblr.com/) **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks and all my love to my boy Glass_Jacket for always supporting my ideas.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are now moving into the meat of the story. It may become more confusing for some, but I promise there's a point to it all! xox - MJ

The shower is running, and Dean’s phone is buzzing with a call as you tidy your motel room. Over the past 24-hours, you’ve become more aware of your feelings, of sensations – even if you’re still not entirely sure of the implications of your bond with Dean Winchester. Regardless, you want him desperately and completely, just as he wants you, and you wholly satisfy each other.

 

You glance at Dean’s phone when it buzzes for the sixth time in 10-minutes and see the caller ID reads “Sam” again. You’re instinctively protective of your time with Dean, even though you don’t know why, so you don’t interrupt him to tell him his brother is incessantly ringing his phone. You need to fulfill whatever the fates have decided your destiny with the hunter to be – to fulfill each other and to realize your fortunes.

 

Once you’d finally gotten through to Dean to let happen between the two of you what is the natural progression, Dean didn’t hold back. He’s still questioning the whys and hows of this connection, but you are determined to soothe his distress.

 

As you hear the water taps wrench to off, you snag Dean’s phone from the nightstand, automatically disable notifications, and stash the thing in a drawer. You can feel that you’re on the precipice of something important – surely nothing of grave concern, but momentous nonetheless – and you don’t need justification or proof because you can feel it in your soul.

 

When the door to the bathroom opens and steam rolls out, ushering Dean, wet and glistening, strong hips wrapped in the thin, cotton towel, you grin. “Feeling better, lover?” you ask, turning and wandering toward him, bared to his eyes head-to-toe.

 

Dean pulls a wry half-smile; his eyes are emerald fire and his jaw is tight as he rubs a smaller towel over his wet hair and the back of his neck. “Completely fucking confused, _lover_.” Dean shakes his head and drops the hand towel to the floor before reaching for your delicate wrist and pulling you in.

 

You roll your fingers over the makeshift waistband of his damp towel and push it to the floor. He’s hard again – or still, you really don’t know anymore – and _sacred gods_ is he perfect. “You are-”

 

“Everything, perfect, the only one – I get it,” Dean interrupts then dips his head to kiss your lips, gripping your biceps just enough to maneuver you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Then he pushes you to sit and snatches his flannel from the floor, wrapping your shoulders in the soft fabric. “Honey, we’ve fucked 27 ways to Sunday. It’s time to talk.”

 

* * *

 

“He’s still not answering,” Sam sighs in frustration. His brow is furrowed, and his jaw is tense, working tightly and rapidly as his worry grows.

 

Castiel crosses the room with a large tome balanced in the palm of his left hand. “We need to go to him, then, because she isn’t going to stop until she gets what she’s tasked to obtain.”

 

Sam nods fear clouding his frustrated gaze. “Cas, you’re sure?” Sam’s voice softens with the strain of hours of research and stress and anxiety. “Even Rowena believed Jilyxih was telling the truth – that she didn’t know where she was from and why she was here.”

 

Castiel nods once. “She was likely telling the truth, but…” He snaps the book shut and places it on the table next to Sam. “Now that we know who she is, there’s no question. Jilyxih is the mother of all succubi. I don’t know why she doesn’t remember, but her power is still great.”

 

“Someone’s tryin’ to mate them,” Rowena says as she enters the room. “With Michael’s abominations and Jack runnin’ ‘round, and…” She motions to her own plumped belly. “ _This_.” Rowena closes her eyes with a distant look of longing, shudders, then returns her strengthened gaze to Castiel and Sam. “Someone’s tryin’ to create another new powerful race.”

 

“Ahh, yes,” Castiel says with a certain amount of inappropriate relief in his tone. When Sam gives him a chastising look, Castiel replies, “What? It makes sense. At least we know now what we’re dealing with.”

 

Sam heaves a heavy sigh and shakes his head, returning his exhausted gaze to the very pregnant Rowena. “Why Dean? And who’s doing this?”

 

Rowena looks at Sam like he’s the silliest of all children. “Samuel, Dean is very important to the structure of our universe.” She scoffs. “You both are. This isn’t new information.”

 

“Okay, but he’s only human-”

 

“So was Kelly Kline!” Rowena growls in frustration. “You boys aren’t ignorant to this world. Stop thinkin’ inside boxes! And we need to get to Dean _now_ as we know that boy cannot think outside his own pants.”

 

“How do we find him?” Jack appears in the doorway, worry plain on his young face. He seems to have picked up traits from each of his surrogate parents, Sam’s furrowed brow being one of the most obvious. “Rowena’s right, we can’t waste any more time.”

 

Rowena sighs heavily and reaches for Jack’s hand. “How was your rest, wee one?” she asks, and Jack bows his head, nods noncommittally. “You aren’t comin’ with us if you aren’t feelin’ better.”

 

“Whoa – _us_?” Sam asks, standing and closing his laptop. “Rowena, you can’t think we’re taking you anywhere near Jilyxih at this point.” Rowena bristles at Sam’s tone and Cas rolls his eyes before turning his back to pace his frustration into the floorboards.

 

“Samuel,” Rowena’s own tone is clipped, and it makes Jack visibly cringe. “May I remind you that I am a centuries old and very powerful witch?” Sam deflates slightly and shakes his head, but she continues. “I have gone up against the devil himself – _twice_ – and come back as strong as ever.” Rowena inhales deeply and glares down her nose at the hunter. “I am _carrying the child_ of the archangel Gabriel. Do not tell me what I can and cannot do.”

 

Sam sighs and speaks softly and quietly. “Rowena, I know you’re carrying Gabe’s… child.” He pauses for impact, and Rowena’s flinch is infinitesimal. “Which is why we need to keep you off Jilyxih’s radar. We have no idea who’s behind her or the plans they have.”

 

Rowena narrows her eyes then turns to Jack with a smile. “Come, Jacky,” she chirps. “Let’s go find us a snack, hmm?” She shoots Sam and Cas a look before huffing and turning on her tiny, heeled boots to head to the kitchen.

 

Cas groans. “Sam, we need help,” he says, squaring his stance and holding Sam’s wavering gaze.

 

“I know, Cas, but until we see and talk to Dean, we don’t have any idea what we’re really up against with this.” Sam’s eyes are pleading. “We need to be smart, I agree – but we also need to be quiet.”

 

Cas sighs in agreement. “Okay.” He nods. “So, what’s the plan?”

 

* * *

 

“Dean, you’ve got to believe me,” you plead. “Everything I feel is honest and pure. I have no intention of hurting you.”

 

Dean nods slowly, lips pursed, cradling your hands in his. After getting you to agree to talk, he pulled his jeans on and sat in a rickety chair to face you.

 

“I believe you,” he says, and the warmth of his gaze relaxes you. Now that you’re talking and not acting, your head hurts a little bit. You feel an odd sense of being split through that you can’t grasp, and you could never even begin to explain to Dean.

 

Maybe you don’t have to explain anything to him.

 

“But someone’s messin’ with your memories,” Dean continues. “You say you remember _everything_...” He shakes his head. “But you’re just goin’ through the motions.”

 

You shake your own head, defiant, determined. “I’m not-”

 

Dean silences you by sitting straighter in his seat, bigger than you, his face harder than moments before. “You don’t know who you are, or why you’re _really_ here.” You try to interject again but stop dead when your hands are compressed in his much larger ones, his head tilted, his eyes warning. “And _don’t_ say we belong together, again.”

 

You’re quiet for a long time. You feel unfamiliar, small and weak. This isn’t what you’re accustomed to – you aren’t weak – but Dean makes you feel that way. Part of you thinks that’s the natural order of humanity – that he’s a man, he’s bigger and stronger than you are, and he’s meant to protect you. Part of you wants to scream and scratch...

 

You shake away your warring emotions and focus on Dean’s eyes.

 

“I remember how to love,” you say, quiet and calm and certain. “Isn’t that enough?”

 

Dean breathes and he’s just as quiet as you are for a moment. “I wish,” he says. “But you talk like you’re a million years old and act like you’re brand new – it doesn’t add up. More than that, it’s about 900 red flags of fucked up.”

 

You feel part of yourself accept that no matter how good it feels to just have him near you, inside you, on you, you’re missing… something. You wonder briefly if your human vessel is rationalizing and accepting Dean’s argument. Could it be that powerful?

 

And what’s the other part of you – really?

 

“Sweetheart,” Dean begins again, leaning forward, pulling you close. “We gotta call Sammy, circle the wagons.” He holds your regretful gaze. “We thought hidin’ you was the right thing, but…” He twists your fingers with his. “It’s just muddyin’ the waters.”

 

The way he looks at you – like he’ll never let you go, like he trusts you completely – makes your chest ache. It’s guilt you’re feeling, you think, and the fact sends your mind spinning. Guilt is a human emotion like shame and regret. Aren’t you more than human?

 

You sigh and drop your eyes to the floor. Arbitrarily assigned sides of _right_ and _wrong_ battle for your decision. You don’t want to look at Dean because the human side will surely win out. But your heart is just as traitorous as your vision.

 

“Sam called while you were in the shower,” you admit, turning your gaze up to meet his once again. “Your phone’s in the drawer.”

 

Dean sighs and closes his eyes, sits back, letting your hands slip through his. Your stomach drops, and you can’t breathe. He’s angry. You knew he would be, and you knew what the unpleasant physical repercussions would be. Soon you’ll feel your skin covered in a cold sweat.

 

“A’right,” he says, standing and crossing the room to the nightstand where you hid his phone.

 

You watch him, feeling thick, dark emotions wash over you. Is this how humans live with each other? Is this what motivates them – the desire to feel or _not_ feel certain things? It’s all so crude.

 

Dean pulls the drawer open and grabs his phone. “Seven missed calls,” he says, turning a wilting gaze on you. “Beautiful.” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling and grips his phone tight at his side with a heavy sigh.

 

You truly hate it, though. You truly hate that he’s angry and disappointed in you. You know the anxiousness will pass, but you also know you’ve forever tainted your beloved connection with Dean Winchester.

 

“Dean, I’m sorry,” you apologize, and you mean it.

 

He turns to you and you just now noticed how tired and drawn he looks. “Just... get dressed,” he says before lifting his phone to his ear.

 

You nod and draw in a deep breath. “Okay,” you reply, but he isn’t listening anymore.

 

You stand and cross the room, readying yourself for what’s to come.

**Author's Note:**

> All my love and gratitude to Glass_Jacket and marksmanfem for their support.


End file.
